


Tour Buses

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s, Angst and Smut, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, No Dialogue, Tour Bus Sex, handjobs, sex drugs and pop and roll, watching porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Rob watch an adult video on the tour bus together. This is what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tour Buses

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story that I found and re-wrote almost entirely.

The impact of the pornographic images on Rob’s mind and body is made numb by the alcohol and illegal drugs that have entered his system. It’s not appealing enough. Not hard enough.

It’s not good enough, and Robbie finds himself slipping into a comfortable haze that has very little to do with how soft the back seats of the tour bus are. Here, he can forget that he’s alive and for a second pretend that he’s just an ordinary boy with ordinary needs and not, in fact, a member of a boy band whose every living second is planned by outsiders.

He’s just a boy. Just watching. Not taking anything in. Not acting upon his desires like a good boy bander should.

Lads in boy bands are innocent, happy, kind, approachable, and everything else Rob isn’t capable of being while he’s surrounded by the manufactured lackeys of the machine that makes pop music happen. Boy banders don’t do sex, they keep telling him. They don’t kiss others or have girlfriends, and that has perhaps been the hardest part of it.

Rob hasn’t had a girlfriend ever since the band started. He hasn’t even bloody _kissed_ a girl in spite of everyone’s fucked-up disillusions that being a popstar is a total shagfest. It isn’t. Being a popstar is dancing and singing and having your photo taken and pretending not to care that you’re constantly in the fucking back of live performances. It’s not fun. It’s not rewarding or intimate. The only intimacy Rob’s had took place in hotel rooms or here, watching porn on the television set in their dirty tour van. There has been very little of the real thing.

Then his hazy, languid mind remembers. Mark’s here too, watching the adult video alongside him and never, ever letting his gaze leave their large, black television because he’s far less gone than Rob is, or so he thinks.

A beat. Realization settles. _Mark’s here with him._

Why oh why is that thought so strangely titillating?

Rob curiously tries to look over his shoulder, but it hurts to. He realizes that his head is banging.

His vision is blurry and an odd kaleidoscope of different, vibrant colours that definitely weren’t there two minutes ago, but it does not take away how weirdly affected he is by what he’s seeing: Mark, comfortably on the back seat, half-lying-half sitting. One legged propped up. His head titled backwards. His hand — flipping heck; his hand inside his trousers.

_Touching himself_.

Rob’s ears start ringing as if a bomb has gone off inside his head, and that’s when everything goes downhill. His head aches as if it’s about to split in two. The noises in the background become almost too loud to bear. All that moaning. Swearing. Sweet nothings that mean nothing to him because all he can think about is Mark being here with him.

Then Rob realizes.

It’s _Mark_ that’s doing the moaning.

The couple in the video kiss, and the images morph into the minute details of what Robbie is being presented with: Mark’s lips, soft, wet and inviting. Parted. His cheeks, a match for the reds in Mark’s designer jacket. His eyes, focusing not on the video, but on _him_ as another gasp leaves his dirty mouth.

_Mark’s eyes are on him._

Rob’s heart skips a beat. It’s as though all his cockiness and self-control jump out of his chest one at a time. This is not what’s supposed to be happening, he tells himself. This is not happening.

This is happening.

Mark keeps on watching Rob as he softly strokes himself. Rob can tell that he’s hard, and his blurred gaze flicks from the television to Mark’s trousers and back to the television again. He can’t tell what’s so exciting about it. Everything’s just one blur of skin, spit, semen and body parts, but there’s one thing Robb _does_ know while the world spins him around and turns him inside out:

right now, Mark excites him more than being in this band ever has.

The alcohol erases the last trace of inhibition. There’s something he wants to do. _Should_ do. They both do, but Rob’s cluttered mind can’t quite figure out what it is.

His trousers are too tight. He wants them off. Off. He’s still too inexperienced to understand. Too young to comprehend what a tipsy Mark is asking him to do when he slowly unzips his trousers and makes Rob discover with wicked pleasure that Mark is much bigger. So big. It should not tempt him, but

alcohol

always

wins

and he’s too God damn curious and too horny and to be honest he just wants to get off because he hasn’t for so, so long. He hasn’t for so long.

Robbie pushes the remaining strand of clear, sober thoughts out of his head and mirrors his actions to those in the video in the background. He kisses and touches and gropes Mark and _fuck_ , his head’s spinning, but it’s nothing compared to when Mark hungrily squeezes his cock through the fabric of his jeans and makes him feel like he’s about to fall off the world’s edge.

It doesn’t take long. These things never do. Rob speeds up his strokes to match the movements on the television he’s supposed to be watching, and they’re both off. T-shirts are clumsily taken off bodies. Baggy trousers, wriggled out of until they dangle around ankles. Mark’s expensive red jacket ends up in a sad heap on the floor, but he’s too high to give a damn. They both are. All that matters, is the high; the climax; the addictive, sinful rush as the temperature in their veins becomes a thousand times higher and they both forget how they ever, _ever_ got there.

—

How did they ever get here?


End file.
